


Run For Your Father, Run For Your Mother

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of the times, I'm unsatisfied with a lot of Rule-63 fic. I find that they adhere to rigid gender binaries without really exploring what it would mean for if Dean were a cis!woman. So I wrote this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run For Your Father, Run For Your Mother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonisland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonisland/gifts).



> Additional warnings: internalized sexism, misogynist slur, John Winchester flavored verbal abuse. Could possibly be considered wincesty, but definitely not written with the intention of wincest.

Sam stuffs his backpack with Vonnegut and math books and the anthology of historical texts from the last school. He wonders how long they’ll stay here in this motel with the stained wallpaper, the leaky faucets, and the unending scalding hot water boiler which Dean was taking full advantage of. “Hurry up!” He zips up the backpack. “I need to use it too. Gonna be late.” 

He sniffs his pits, wrinkles up his nose. Leans over the kitchen sink, runs his fingers through his hair. Instead of dandruff, grave dust and bone dust and road dust from Dean had pushed him to the ground, and they had wrestled regarding who would be taking the shovels back to the car until John had told them to knock it the fuck off and get in the damn car. 

“Hold your goddamn horses, Sammy,” Dean says. She’s got a towel wrapped around her head even though her hair is uneven and cut short with a ragged fringe around her neck, barely brushing her shoulder. Water still pearls the the jutting edge of her collarbones. 

“Well, if you weren’t acting like such a girly-girl,” Sam says, grabbing a clean pair of boxers and feeling only pin-pricks of guilt when he sees the way she flinches, eyes slitting into slivers of green at him. It vanishes almost immediately when he sees that Dean had scrawled “bitch” in the condensation before she had come on out. 

He showers quickly, even though Dean’s left enough hot water for him to take a long one. He turns the knob off, opens the curtain, only to find empty towel wracks. “Hey—Dean? Dean!”

The dulcet tones of AC/DC turn up higher, make the walls shiver, the bones inside his skin tremble. He doesn’t bother drying off, just yanks up his boxers and pushes his way through the door, turning down the radio. “What the hell, Dean?” 

But she’s pumping herself up and down from the floor, the muscles in her shoulders flexing into hard balls, her bare toes clenching into the carpet, and he hears her count ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred—and he knows she’s not faking even though must have interrupted her push-up training to taunt him with the music. 

“Why do you shower if you’re just gonna work out after?” 

“The musk is a powerful pheromone, Sam,” Dean says, jumping to her feet, interlocking her hands behind her head, twisting her back and stretching, before shaking out the soreness in her arms. Her stomach is damp, and sweat highlights the hard rise of her muscles above the jeans sliding around her hips, gaping slightly around the middle of her back. 

She’s as tiny and hard as the dagger she keeps inside her boot, the one she thinks Sam doesn’t know about, but he does. 

“You’re so full of crap. How are you gonna have time for pheromones at school when you—you need to study math and reading and stuff,” Sam says as she pulls on a Led Zeppelin black t-shirt over her head. 

She headlocks him in her elbow as they tumble out the door together. “You are neglecting one of the most valuable spaces in the entire school, Sammy. Janitor closets. They need to feel useful. And what better than them to discretely—”

Sam pushes her — “Shut up!”

And Dean throws her head back, and laughs. 

They need to get some paperwork sorted before school, and Dean swaggers her way up to that desk, leans in close so that the edge of it digs into her rib cage, her arms spread out across the wide expanse of fake wood like it’s actually her desk, like it’s all hers and who the fuck is that secretary in her button up blouse and perfume on the other side of it, with her ankles crossed and her black pumps kicked off. “Hi,” Dean says. 

“And you are?”

“Winchester.” 

The secretary—Peggy according to the name tag hanging in plastic around her neck—types on her computer and Dean waits, a smile lingering around her lips. “Sam and Deanna?” Peggy asks. 

Dean laughs soft and slow, leans over even closer despite the hard line of the desk. Drops the kind of wink that comes with a cocky grin that clicks her teeth and lights up her whole damn face. “You can call me Dean.” 

Sam steps on her foot, and she just elbows him in the ribs. 

Dean gets everything sorted and, as they walk the hallways to their respective classes, Sam says, “Don’t you have any shame? She’s old.” 

“Think of all the things an older woman could teach someone. Now go off and have some fun,” Dean says, pushing him away from her. 

School goes by. Sam’s the new boy. Sam has to say his name again. That they move a lot and that he looks forward to his time with them. Sam slumps into his seat, notices the way the other kids side-eye him, sizing him up, wondering what sort of student he’s gonna be. He hunches his shoulders in close, wonders if he could somehow find a seat in the corner, by the window with a view on the highway, keeping lookout for a black impala, cause there must be some way out of here.

They meet up at the end of school. She smells like flowers—is it lavender? There are some growing along the fence, and she’s got paper-thin purple petals in her hair, yellow dust along her neck. “How was it, Sammy?”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

“Want pizza? Ice cream?” She pulls out a wad of bills from her pocket—and he wonders if she got it hustling pool.

“Sure, Dean.”

She slides her arm around him, elbow hugged close to his neck.

“Wanna order in? There’s a Star Trek marathon on the SyFy channel that’d be great.” 

“Yeah, Dean, yeah.”

And they do. Dean’s in the bathroom when the pizza comes, so Sam gets the door. Flips the cardboard box open, grins when he sees that half of it has vegetable shit on it, just like Sam likes it, while the other half is greasy pepperoni, the shit that Dean indulges in when she can, when Dad’s away on a hunt. 

They’re in the middle of saving the whales, Dean all sprawled out on the bed in a pair of Sam’s boxers and a black spaghetti strapped undershirt, tongue lapping up strings of cheese as she brings the slice to her mouth, when the door unlocks, and Dean just drops the pizza on the bed, rolls off, her socks slipping down her ankles and heels, as she fumbles for the sawed off shot gun under the bed—

and Dad shoulders his way through the door. “Hey guys,” he says, then pauses, breathes in deep, before rubbing his wrist over his mouth, over the almost beard he’s got growing.

“Jesus, Dad, I almost shot you,” Dean says, cradling her head in her hands, elbows on the mattress. Sam sees the way her chest is concave, the muscles around her shoulders still tense, the way her breathing makes it look like her bones are shuddering under her skin.

“What’s all this?” he gestures at the pizza box, the already empty quarts of ice cream.

“Celebrating a great first day at school. No ghosts. No monsters in the shadows.” Dean tries to grin, but it’s wooden, faltering on her lips.

“I asked for something nice,” Sam says, and he steps hard on Dean’s foot when her head whips around. 

“Why are you eating this crap?” John says, picking up the pizza, tossing it in the trash. There’s a greasy triangle on the coverlet, and Sam wants to desperately break up the way they’re staring at each, shout about how he’s not it, he’s ain’t gonna be the one to be sleeping on the grease, the wet spot on the bed.

But it’s like he can’t move, can’t speak.

“Have you even kept up on your training while I’ve been away?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says. “Every morning.”

Sam bobs his head until his bangs fall into his eyes.

“Good,” John says, throwing the pizza away slice by slice. “You gotta be ready. Gotta be hard. Gotta be a soldier because we’re in a war and don’t you forget it.” 

“No, sir,” Dean says and then, at Dad’s frown, flick of his eyes up her way, says, “Yes, sir. I understand.” Dean licks her lips, then grabs the handful of napkins that came with the pizza, puts them under cold water, and comes back to rub at the grease on the covers. 

Dad is still throwing the pizza away piece by piece. “Dean bought that,” Sam says. “Bought that with her own money.” 

“And?” Dad says just as Dean says, “Sam.” 

“It won’t hurt to have pizza every once in a while,” Sam says, stuffing his fists in his jeans pockets. 

“Won’t hurt, Sam?” John says. “You wouldn’t remember. Too young.” His head swivels back towards Dean, who’s already frozen, shoulders braced, fingers clenched so hard her nails are shredding through the damp towels. “But Deanna has to be strong.” He dips his head, eyes catching Dean’s. 

“She is strong,” Sam says. “She could beat up any boy in class.” Sam’s glad to see her flush proud, not shame. 

“That’s not the point,” John says. 

“Then what is the point?” 

John laughs, not happy, and Dean’s face is so pale Sam can see every freckle. “You really want to have this conversation now? Okay. Fine. Deanna. Look at me.” 

Sam hates the way she lifts up her face, raises her eyes towards him.

“Do you want to end up on the ceiling like your Mom?”

Dean buttons up her lips, leaves the towels on the floor. Doesn’t even bother putting her shoes on before she’s slamming her way out the door, shaking the walls. 

“Fuck you, Dad,” Sam says. 

John sticks his finger in Sam’s face. “Language. I’m taking a shower. Tell Deanna to  untwist her panties whenever she gets back.”

Sam tries to get the grease up, pours dish soap over it that smells like citrus. Gets up as much of it as he could. Slips under the damp covers, waits for Deanna to get home. Dad goes out to the bar when he’s done, tries to call Deanna to tell her to get her butt back home, but her phone buzzes in her jeans all crumpled up on the floor. “Fucking—” and Dad bites down on his words.

“I’m old enough to take care of myself,” Sam says. John just laughs, then tosses him a pistol and says to shoot anyone that comes through that door that’s not him or Deanna. 

Sam puts the gun under his pillow, props up his history book on his knees, tries to concentrate. Looks at his watch. It’s been hours since Dean left, since Dad left, and he wonders how long it’ll be before Dean gets back, frustrated that he’s too jumpy to concentrate, to busy remembering the look on Dean’s face, the way Dad had said those words in his head.

Then there’s pounding on the door, and Sam jumps out, stands on tiptoes to see the peephole, sees Dean leaning against the frame, chest heaving up and down, and he unlocks the door and she staggers in, dripping sweat and there’s blood on her feet, calves trembling and shivering, and when she breathes in deep, she coughs up air as she chugs down a glass of water. 

She wipes her nose with her wrist, rubs Sam’s head mussing up his hair even though she knows he hates that. “Hi, Sammy.”

“Dean—about Dad—”

She thunks the glass down. “What about Dad?”

And Sam sighs, climbs into the bed, and says, “You coming?” 

“Sure you don’t mind that I’m gonna get the sheets all stinky?” Dean says, smiling, sticking her tongue out between her teeth. 

Sam just shrugs. “Come on.” She slides in next to him, rolls over on her side. Sam follows her, stomach curving over her spine, arm around her waist. She’s hard, slick, sweaty muscle. Sam’s softer, but almost taller than she is. That’s so weird. “‘Night, Dean.”

She just grunts, snores soft. 

They both wake up when Dad staggers home, but Sam can’t sleep over Dad’s snores, and the way Dean’s entangled her fingers in his, squeezing so tight he wonders she doesn’t break all his bones. 


End file.
